


Absolution

by princessofreylo



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Amnesia, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Apprentice (The Arcana), Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Original Character(s), Romance, Threesome - F/M/M, eventual OT3, get ready for the angst train woot woot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-07-27 18:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20050399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofreylo/pseuds/princessofreylo
Summary: It comes to Asra with freezing clarity: She doesn't remember him.The realization shatters him.The realization is his absolution.He should have known these things would come at a cost far greater than he imagined.(And yet he would do it again in a heartbeat.)





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing she knows is purple.

There are other things, _ important _things, that flash through her memory in a nonsensical kaleidoscope of images: Red eyes, red walls, soft lips pressed against hers, blood spattered in her palm, rows and rows of stained cots, and ash falling on her skin like snow. 

(_These are important _, she knows.)

She tries to cling to them but the images disappear as soon as they come; her mind purges them one by one until all she has left is the profound knowledge that she has lost something irretrievable.

Now, the only thing she sees is _ purple_. Purple in the form of two glittering irises gazing down at her. They are wet and swimming with an emotion she couldn’t even _ begin _ to decipher. She feels a need to comfort them, to comfort the person they belong to, but her limbs don’t want to work for her.

The second thing she knows is blinding pain as her muscles begin to cramp and constrict, seizing her entire body rigid. She gasps in pain -- the first breath she’s taken -- and immediately regrets it when oxygen rips through her esophagus and burns through her lungs as though she had inhaled boiling water. It floods into every artery, vein, and capillary until her entire body is submerged into the flames and _ she can’t even move_. A strangled noise escapes her throat. The eyes above her immediately shift to concern and they speak to her:

_ “I got you. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.” _

These are words, she knows, but she can’t understand them. She doesn’t know what they’re trying to say to her -- in fact, the more she thinks and the more she struggles to keep her mind above the fire, the more she realizes she knows _ nothing _ at all_. _Panic becomes as palpable as pain as a million queries run through her mind.

_ (Who am I? Where am I? What is happening to me? Who are you?) _

There is a fluttering in her chest, behind her burning lungs_\--_a quiet yet strong-willed thing that aches with the acute sensation of a muscle that has long since seen use. She opens her mouth again to try and _ say _ something, to communicate with the purple eyes that are the only things she knows. She pleads with them, begging them to get her _ out of here_, but the only noises that escape her mouth are incomprehensible even to her.

The eyes are sad again. She cries out in frustration and makes more noise, hoping against hope that they understand her and give her the information she needs. 

Instead they close and she feels fingertips touch the center of her forehead.

_ “Rest,” _They urge.

The last thing she sees is a lilac sky with a multitude of stars, each one glimmering as though celebrating her presence. For the first time yet, she feels peace. 

Everything goes dark.

...oOo…

His hands are stained with a deep crimson, mostly dry, and currently cracking like old paint. Asra can’t stand to look at them. 

_ (What have I done?) _

Her weight in his arms is nothing compared to the weight of his mistakes. He adjusts his grip on her skin, leaving a trail of red where he touches her. It makes his stomach roll. 

(_ What will happen now?) _

When he finally exits the doorway from his realm into the real world, he half expects her body to dissipate into thin air, but it doesn’t. It stays warm and real in his arms. He still can’t believe it.

_ (How do I atone for my sins?) _

The streets are hectic in the wake of Count Lucio’s death. Most people celebrate, others mourn--he isn’t sure how many days it’s been since the masquerade, but it’s clear the people of Vesuvia aren’t done talking about it. They likely wouldn’t be for a while.

_ (Do I even deserve forgiveness? _)

It’s cold and dark in the shop, as it had been since he lost her. The second he crosses the threshold, though, her presence seems to breathe life back into the wood. The structure, although visibly the same, suddenly becomes a _ home _ again. He can’t stop the smile that crosses his face. Faust slithers down from a rafter, her tongue tasting the air excitedly.

_ “Friend home!” _ She says.

Asra gingerly carries the precious creature in his arms up the stairs to the loft and sets her down on his mattress. Her hair falls over her face, rustling a little with each exhale she takes. It makes his heart squeeze tightly.

_ (What if everything goes wrong?) _

Her breathing is low and even. He leaves her briefly to tear off his bloodied shirt and bring back a cloth to clean the stains he’d left on her skin. He gently wipes away the crimson shame, and when he’s done, he takes care to change her out of the strange robes into a set of nightclothes. He doesn’t look at her body, not the way he used to. It feels shameful to do so now.

_ (I never wanted you caught up in my mess.) _

He hasn’t cried in a while. Since his return to Vesuvia, he has only felt an aching numbness in his bones that he couldn’t shake. He _ couldn’t _ cry. But now she’s here, in his bed, and despite the hurdles and the pain and his mistakes, _ he did it. _ He brought her back. She is the same as he remembers, though her chestnut hair is much longer than she used to keep it. Also, her freckles are not nearly as stark thanks to lack of sunlight. Although her skin is much paler, there is a rosy hue returning to her cheeks and warmth to her skin and _ she’s alive. _

When she exhales a rattling, painful sigh, he feels something shift in his soul and then everything -- _ everything _ he’s ever held back -- releases. A sob spills from his mouth, his left hand clapping over it as though to keep it in. His right hand reaches forward to brush her hair ( _ Soft, so impossibly soft after what I did to you--) _ from her face and yet another sob breaks free. Soon, he is crying freely, and it feels _ incredible _ . It starts out as something bitter-sweet, spurred on by the painful needling of his mistakes on his conscious but soon it shifts into something _ joyous _ . He presses his fingers against a spot under her jaw where he can feel the blood pulsing through her body in time with his own heartbeat. Feeling it so real and so _ viable _causes a wet, relieved laugh to bubble out of him. 

_ (Alive, alive, alive. She’s alive. It worked.) _

He can bear the weight of his regrets as long as it means she’s alive. No matter the cost. No matter the sin. 

_ (When she wakes I’ll tell her everything.) _

He doesn’t leave her side the entire night. 

...oOo…

He should have known these things would come with a cost far greater than he imagined.

...oOo…

He worries about what may happen when she wakes. If she’s in pain, he isn’t sure it’s the kind of pain he can heal. If she’s still confused, he’s not sure how he would explain everything in a way that made sense.

What will she remember? Will she remember her death? The thought leaves him with cold horror and he has to make himself a pot of tea to banish it. Faust does her best to help him through the anxiety, but there’s only so much she can do. 

_ “Friend sick?” _Faust asks on the third day. Asra has bitten his nails down to bloody stumps. 

_ (She should have woken by now. Did I recite the spell wrong? Did the ritual not work? Did I leave a part of her in the other realm?) _

_ “Friend sick?” _ Faust asks again, gently prodding her snout against his hand. He idly runs his fingers down her scales, reassuring both of them.

“Yes,” He responds. 

_ “Faust help?” _

Asra smiles, though he knows it’s tired. “I don’t think there’s anything you’d be able to do, my friend.”

_ “Ask the doctor?” _ She offers. Asra’s hand stills on her back as _ his _ face came to mind exactly how he last remembered the doctor: eyes wild, hair wild, and a grimace on his mouth. Asra had never hated him more. 

“I will _ never _ ask him for help.” He seethes.

If a snake could shrug, he imagines Faust would. His familiar simply slithers up his arm until she’s wrapped loosely around the back of his neck, giving him a slight squeeze. 

_ “Friend will wake, _” She says. 

Next to them, the girl takes in a deep breath. She’s been doing more of that, recently. He takes it as a good sign. 

Still. It’d been _ three days _. He knows for a fact that the spell he placed on her was only effective for a few hours. Then again, he supposed that coming back from the dead would be rather exhausting.

All he can do is wait. 

...oOo…

She wakes on the fifth day. He’s downstairs, working on a few poultices for some regulars. The shop itself is closed, but long-time customers knew they could write to him to fill their orders and he'd pay one of the nearby orphans to deliver them. He figures it might be a more productive use of his time than staring at the catatonic girl in his bed. He’s just about to mix in some lemongrass when he hears it: the distinctive creak of the bed frame upstairs. Heart leaping into his throat, he throws down the lemongrass and stands to make his way to the stairs. 

Then there’s a groan of a floorboard followed shortly by the loud _ thud _ of a body hitting the floor. Asra’s heart swells to bursting; he takes the stairs two at a time until he is in the loft and _oh_, his heart nearly stops because _ there she is _, the afternoon sunlight glowing on the skin of her thighs where her nightgown had ridden up. She’s attempting to put her legs under her, but each attempt is wobbly and she can’t get herself off the floor. He swallows his concern and approaches her. 

_ (Alright, it’s alright, we’ll work with it.) _

She turns her face, open and _ stark _ in it’s honesty, and a flash of _ something _ crosses her expression. He isn’t sure what it is. Confusion? Shock? It would be only natural for her to feel that way. He smiles at her, attempting to calm his rapidly beating heart, and steps closer.

She immediately drags herself the opposite direction, her expression morphing into outright fear. His hopeful heart crashes painfully into the pit of his stomach.

“It’s me,” he says. He tries for calm but he’s certain he comes off rather desperate. “You know me. It’s okay.”

He crouches to her level and shifts forward. Once again, she retreats, her back pressing against the wall. Her chest heaves with anxiety and she watches him with wide eyes.

Alarm bells ring in his ears. 

_ (This isn’t right.) _

_ (Something is terribly, terribly wrong here.) _

He extends his arm like an offering to a cornered animal. He recognizes the same glimmer of fear in her eyes. “Asra,” he says, hoping it sparks some sort of remembrance for her. “_ Asra _.” He repeats, though again, it’s more like a plea.

He leans forward to allow the sunlight to hit his face and give her a better look. It seems to work - the fear in her eyes slowly melts into confusion, then to curiosity, and she leans forward as well. His heart rises slowly from the pit of his stomach.

(_ Yes. It’s me. Know me. Remember me.) _

She is staring at his eyes as though searching for something within them. A spark of recognition flashes over her features and a small, subtle smile graces her face, making his head spin. How long has it been since he last saw her smile? How long has it been since he last saw her smiling at _ him _?

“Asra,” He says one more time, pressing his outreached hand to his chest. 

Shakily, she raises her hands, and her fingers clumsily circle his eyes. Her touch brands him with everything he’s lost and everything he’s gained, leaving him breathless, leaving him absolved _(if only for this moment)_. 

After she’s done exploring the area around his eyes, she gives him a quizzical once-over, and all remnants of recognition fall from her face. It’s as though she was familiar with his eyes, but everything else about him is new to her. It’s then he knows, he _ knows _.

(_ She doesn’t remember me.) _

The realization shatters him.

The realization is his absolution.


	2. Chapter 2

He calls her Amara. She believes him - she has no reason not to. 

He tells her that  _ he _ is Asra. She still hasn’t learned how to form her lips around the name yet, which is increasingly frustrating, but she likes knowing it all the same. He was the first thing she saw, the first thing she  _ knew _ . Putting a name to something so important was just another piece of the puzzle. 

Asra was infinitely patient, infinitely kind, and infinitely sad. 

She can see it in the small smiles he gives her and in the way he washes her hair when she bathes for the first time (and wasn’t  _ that _ a trip. She wishes that baths could last forever). She can see the heaviness in his soul as clearly as she can see the dimples on his cheeks and somehow she  _ knows _ it’s because of her. 

At first, her thought processes were murky and cloudy, but with each day that passes they get clearer. Still, she can’t figure out how to put her thoughts into words, nor can she master the art of walking. It’s maddening to  _ know  _ that she can do it only to fail her attempts anyways. Asra is always there to catch her when she falls, infuriatingly patient  with her. 

_ You should be mad at me,  _ she thinks.  _ You should be disappointed. _

(That is not his nature, she knows.)

She has dreams. Terrifying dreams that show her things she  _ needs _ to know but can’t remember when she wakes up. They feel important. They feel like they could free her. 

(No matter how hard she tries, they are a ribbon in the wind and forever beyond her reach.)

** ...oOo... **

The first week is undoubtedly the hardest for both of them.

Amara’s strength slowly returns, though she still can’t move around on her own. Asra carries her from the bed to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the bed, from the bed to the bathroom, and so on. He doesn't mind. It's the least he could do, considering she's  _ alive _ . He bathes her, dresses her, feeds her--all the while keeping his eyes politely averted. 

He can see that her lack of autonomy is frustrating for her--perhaps even humiliating. He tries to keep his words light and friendly to assure her that she's no burden, but it is still the same Amara in there (even if she doesn’t know it). She never liked to rely on others. Not even him. 

When she isn’t eating or lounging in the shop, she often sleeps. He can hear the whimpers she makes when nightmares plague her. He has to force himself to  _ not _ wake her up -- he doesn’t know what the consequences could be if he did. So instead he has to sit through it, his skin crawling while the price of resurrection tortures her dreams.

_ You did this to her,  _ a wicked voice snarls at the back of his head.

_ (I know, _ he responds)

On the fifth day after she wakes, when he’s trying to brush the knots out of her hair as gently as possible, Amara surprises him.

She  _ speaks _ . 

At least -- she tries.

“As-a.” She says. The syllables are awkward on her tongue.

He’s so dumbfounded, he isn’t sure what to do. He blinks down at her. “What was that?”

“As-a” She tries again. His brain is still short-circuiting on the sheer joy that  _ she’s speaking _ . She tilts her head up to him and when she sees the look on his face, she rolls her eyes (so much like she used to), turns to him, and presses a hand to his chest.

_ “As-a.”  _

He blinks once more, and then it makes sense. That’s his name.  _ She’s trying to say his name. _

_ Stars above and below,  _ he thinks in wonder.

A grin splits his face, “That’s good!” He says. He means it. 

Amara smiles back, clearly proud of herself, and then returns to his book of herb illustrations he’d gifted her. His heart thumps strangely in his chest. She’s developing quickly, which was more than he could have asked for. 

He can only pray that it continues this way.

**...oOo…**

Even with the leaps and strides she’s making, it’s hard for Asra to get used to a new routine with her. It’s hard struggling with his grief from losing her, and even though she's  _ right there _ , he still feels it acutely as a bone-deep ache in his soul. It’s hard to fall asleep on the floor next to his bed only to wake in a cold panic after he’d dreamt that none of it happened at all; that she was still dead, still gone, and he was still alone. 

(She was always there when he woke. His beacon of starlight, sleeping in his bed.)

It was even harder as the sluggishness wears off and she becomes more active, more intuitive. After the first week passes, she can stand on her own, but he still has to help her walk. Especially on the stairs. He starts to grow paranoid that she’ll attempt it on her own and end up falling, so he instructs Faust to keep an eye on her whenever he can’t. Usually Amara ends up staying near him anyways so it’s rarely an issue. 

Along with the decrease in sluggishness, her personality begins to shine brighter. Every day comes with a new reassurance that this really _is_ _her_: One day he finds her collecting the shop’s stowaway ants on a piece of parchment only to release them outside. When he offers her to choose the incense for the day, she always selects dragon’s blood, just as she used to.

It makes him hopeful that there are memories  _ somewhere _ in there, but it’s a bitter kind of hope. He’s terrified of what the repercussions may be if he tries to force any out.

Still, that doesn’t stop him from trying. On the tenth day he makes what he remembers as her favorite meal: beef stroganoff. It’s fatty, creamy, and full of carbs -- everything she had loved before. When he presents it to her, she gives it an experimental taste, but makes a strange face afterwards. He frowns.

“Do you not like it?” He asks. 

She shakes her head. 

“What would you like, then?”

She chews a lip, then gestures to the plain pasta and steamed vegetables he had left out. He scoops some for her without complaint and watches as she eats that happily. 

He doesn’t want it to concern him but it does anyways.

What else may have shifted when she died?

_ (What may have shifted when I brought her back?) _

His concern must be evident because she stops eating. He feels her hand rest on his arm, urging him to look down into her wide, worried, hazel eyes.

“Azza?” She asks. Her pronunciation of his name has grown better. He almost prefers this rendition of it to the real one.

“I’m okay.” He tells her. Against his better judgement, he rests his palm over hers and gives her a smile that he hopes she sees as genuine. Amara had always been intuitive, but now she seems very nearly psychic at times.

(Like now.)

“No.” She counters, calling him out on the lie. 

His smile softens. He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles, “Okay. You got me. I’ll be okay soon, though. I promise.”

She accepts that and he drops her hand. They finish eating in companionable silence.

(His skin tingles where her fingers had curled around his.)

**...oOo...**

In his dream she is screaming at him. They are in his shop and she is throwing things at his head that he only narrowly dodges: jars, vases, and mortars all go flying by with enough force to crack his skull had they landed true.

He should be afraid, yet he isn’t. He is fully aware that he deserves her anger. She is a tempest; beautiful in her fury, awe-inspiring in her fervor. He is helpless but to bear down and let her rage crash over him. 

“You  _ left _ me!” She shrieks at him in a voice cracked with anguish, not wholly human. 

_ I tried to bring you with me,  _ he wants to say.  _ I tried to tell you it wasn’t safe here. You didn’t listen.  _

“I know,” is what he says instead. He knows he doesn’t deserve to defend himself.

_ (I always run away from my problems. You always run toward yours.) _

Her hair is wild and short, the way she used to keep it, and her freckles are dark against her skin once again. His confession seems to instill some sense of calm in her and the storm surrounding her slowly fades. He tries to take a step toward her, but with each step closer, the farther she is drawn away. 

She begins crying. The sound breaks him. 

He begins running in vain. The harder he runs, the more the distance grows, until she’s a mere speck on the other side of a barren field and her mourning is as loud as ever and he still,  _ still,  _ can’t reach her.

_ I’m sorry,  _ He tries to tell her, but the words catch in his throat. He is drowned out by her anguish, anyways. Maybe he doesn’t even deserve to apologize. 

Hearing her cry becomes unbearable. He stops running and forces himself into meditation, willing his dream to melt away and let him escape this subconcious torture. 

Her cries echo after him, even when he opens his eyes to see the rafters of his loft. For a second Asra figures he’s gone mad from grief until he realizes that he actually  _ does _ hear crying. He jolts upright to look at Amara.

She is sitting up already with her face buried into her folded knees and her shoulders shaking. Moonlight dances across the back of her nightgown and illuminates her fly away hair--in his sleep-addled state, he almost believes she could be an angel.

_ (Maybe she is.) _

“Amara,” He murmurs, “Amara, what’s wrong?”

She must not have heard him wake. His words startle her, causing her to sharply raise her tear-stained face to look at him. She looks  _ wretched _ . He’s never seen such emotion on her face before. 

_ (Your fault, your fault, your fault.) _

He wishes she would point her finger at him and  _ blame  _ him for everything. He wishes she would catch on to his mistakes and cast him away. He wishes she hated him for everything he was. That would be easier, he thinks -- to have her catch on now, while she still had time to heal, rather than later when he’s fallen for her all over again.

(Which he knows he will.)

She blinks and another tear slips down her cheek. Both of them exhale in tandem, then her arms open up, and her eyes plead for him to join her. 

He can’t say no.

He climbs onto the mattress to pull her to his chest and holds her so  _ tight _ he's sure he'll smother her. She doesn’t seem to mind. She buries herself into his shirt and continues to cry and cry and  _ cry _ and he’s hopelessly, utterly  _ useless _ . All he can do is stare at the rafters and gently rub her back. He wishes he could ask her what happened, but she still can’t communicate, and he isn’t sure he’d be able to help her anyways.

_ (You will always, always make her cry.) _

He only knows one calming trick, but he figures it wouldn’t hurt to try. He concentrates on a soothing balm and sends the magic down his arm so it can radiate against her spine. It seems to help a little--her crying goes silent, and when he looks down, she is staring blankly at a piece of lint on his chest. 

“I wish you could tell me what’s wrong,” He says softly, mostly to himself. She raises her eyes to meet his and he knows she is thinking the same. 

Her lips part. They close. She sighs heavily, then drops her gaze. After a moment, she places her hand over her chest, and from it he can feel her...her...

It knocks him breathless.

She’s  _ grateful _ . He can feel the emotion from her as clearly as if it were his own. She is grateful for this place and most of all for  _ him _ . He tries his best not to cry, himself, but it’s a tough battle. A single tear slips down his cheek. 

“Go to sleep,” He breathes to her, his hand rubbing idle circles on her back. He is unable to help himself from kissing the crown of her head. As soon as he does, she slips back into her dreams.

As far as he can tell, her nightmare does not return. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!  
This is definitely going to be a self-indulgent sort of thing, but I'm going to try and keep it as broad and inclusive as possible so anybody can insert their own apprentice into the story. 
> 
> As always, putting one's work out in the open is nerve-wracking, so if you have a few kind words to leave me, I would really appreciate it!!!


	3. Chapter 3

After Asra’s parents disappeared and left him stranded in Vesuvia, he would spend  _ hours _ mourning them, attempting to conjure up an image of their faces to no avail. He had taken them for granted, and as the weeks and months and years passed, he realized he could hardly remember them at all. He swore he would  _ never _ take anything for granted again. 

So he started taking careful stock of everything that could be important to him. The directions to the baker’s booth, the specific brand of tea that Muriel seemed to like, the different potions and spells that the Magician taught him over the years -- all of these were filed away in his mind like relics in a museum, impeccably preserved, ready for him to pull out at any given moment. 

It was no surprise that when he met  _ her _ \-- Stars, he had hardly turned 16, and she was  _ maybe _ 14 -- he knew instantly that he wanted to remember everything about her. At the time he had been working for the butcher (he merely swept the stall every once in a while in exchange for cheap meats. It was all he could do at the time; his business as a magician had yet to pick up). Amara had shown up out of the blue, her cheeks ruddy, her curly hair cropped at her chin, her eyes wild. He had been so enraptured by the sight of her -- this wild little thing, so unfamiliar -- that he didn’t even realize she’d stolen a cut of prime rib until she was sprinting the other direction. 

“Boy!” The butcher shouted. He had rounded the corner just in time to see the little slip of a girl run away. “What are you doing?! Go get her!”

Asra snapped into action. He had a small spell that helped endurance --  _ store the energy, let it last --  _ and he used it to chase after her. She was fast, but she wasn’t very nimble. He watched with mild amusement as she knocked into patrons and vendors alike, or tripped over her feet, or shoulder-checked the corner of a building. It wasn’t until they had exited the hubbub of the market that her clumsiness caught up to her and she tripped over a lounging stray dog (much to the dog’s displeasure). 

“Agh!” She shouted, crashing down to the cobblestone. Asra slowed to a stop, letting go of his endurance spell.

“Sheesh, you’re fast,” he commented. Even with the spell, he was struggling to catch his breath. The girl scrambled away from him, slowly climbing to her feet.

“Keep away. I’ll kick your ass.”

In spite of himself, he smiled, “Don’t worry. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

She frowned. He noted that her chin dimpled when she did. “What do you mean?”

“I mean. I  _ had _ to chase after you. You stole from us and it was my watch, so.” He gestured to the meat and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “But it’s been on the ground, now, so I can’t take it back anyways. You may as well keep it.”

“You’re...not going to get me in trouble?” She seemed disbelieving. He couldn’t blame her -- after all, that had been _him_ once: stealing food and drink just to get by. He didn't know her story, but he was in no position to judge her.

“Nope,” He considered her, “You haven’t stolen anything before, have you?”

“...No. How can you tell?”

“For one, nobody in their right mind would steal from a vendor before rush hour. There isn’t enough distraction to get away with it.”

She folded her arms, fixing him with a haughty look, _"_ _ You  _ seemed distracted enough.”

He blushed, his eyes cast down as he was suddenly unable to meet her gaze. He noted that her knees were scraped up after her fall. 

“You’re injured,” He pointed out, desperate to keep their interaction from ending. He didn’t do this often, he didn’t make  _ friends _ often, yet he felt drawn to this girl in a way he couldn’t begin to understand.

She shrugged again, “I’ll live.”

He exhaled. Here goes nothing. “Okay. Well...if you need help fixing them up, I’m currently staying in the loft above the cobbler on Elm Street. You can meet me there when I get off -- around three?”

She stared at him in open shock. Honestly, he couldn’t even blame her. His ears burned and to save himself from any further embarrassment, he turned on his heel and left her there with her stolen goods and his invitation hanging unanswered. He didn’t look back until he had nearly turned the corner to go back into the market, but she was already gone. 

**...oOo…**

Asra returned to his loft a few hours later. He’d received an earful for letting the thief escape, but the butcher was short-handed, so he couldn’t really fire Asra. Even if he did, Asra would have very few regrets.

_ (One of them was for not getting her name.) _

He had with him his earnings for the day: a left-over cut of turkey breast and a cow tongue that was close to expiration (Asra planned to use it for a new ritual he'd read about). As soon as he unlocked the door to his loft, he set to getting the turkey breast cooked. He took extra care with the seasonings and the temperature of the stove, he even used the  _ good _ rosemary that the cobbler brought him from Nevivon, all while his chest thumped nervously. Would she come? 

As the turkey cooked, he began to idly pick up around his apartment. It the first place he’d had to himself and he hadn’t exactly gotten the hand of organizing it. Still, he considered it quaint and he was fairly proud of his little space. He only hoped she would think the same.

_ (If she comes.) _

Right. He continued sweeping to keep himself busy. An hour passed and she still hadn’t shown up -- the turkey was finished and his loft practically  _ gleamed _ . He began to think that she wouldn’t show up at all.

_ (Really, you shouldn’t be surprised.) _

A knock at the door interrupted his thought process and his heart leapt into his throat. Fixing his clothes, he stood up and answered the door, preparing himself for disappointment. But his visitor had a smattering of freckles and short, wild hair and it was  _ her _ and he was so excited he couldn’t contain the smile that slipped onto his face.

“It’s you!” He said, his voice cracking, before catching himself.  _ Get it together, Asra.  _ He cleared his voice and leaned against the doorframe, trying to smooth over his expression so he didn’t seem  _ too _ excited. “I didn’t think you’d come.”  _ (There we go. That was cool.) _

She shrugged. “I have nothing better to do. And you offered to fix up my knees.” She gestured down to her scrapes. They’d finally scabbed over, but they didn’t look pretty.

“Right,” He nodded, then stepped back, “Come in.”

She entered, her eyes taking in his apartment. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought he could see a little flash of excitement in her features. “Wow. How does a busboy's salary afford this?”

“The cobbler was a friend of my mother’s, back in the day,” He explained. He pulled out his first aid supplies and gestured to the cushions so she could sit, “He heard about a little street urchin selling cheap tarot readings, got curious, and when he came to check it out, he immediately recognized me. We got to talking and he offered to let me stay here in exchange for help around the shop every once in a while.”

“Damn. That’s lucky.” She sat down. “Where were you living before?”

“I stayed under the docks for a while. I met a friend there, and then he and I found a little spot in the forest that we lived in for a few years.” He sat down across from her and pulled out a cloth and clean water. He curled a hand around her calf to prop her foot on his thigh. Her skin was soft. He felt his ears burn and  _ prayed to every god imaginable _ that she couldn’t tell.

“And now you’re here.” She hummed, still looking around. He noted her eyes drift to the potted herbs in the windowsill and he wondered if it would be embarrassing for him to explain their properties. Not paying attention, he pressed into her wound a little too hard, causing her to wince with a hiss.

“Sorry,” He mumbled quickly. Once he was done cleaning the wounds, he reached for a poultice he'd created to prevent infection and reduce scarring. He applied it, then wrapped her knees in gauze. “There you go. All fixed up.” He patted her calf, smiling up at her. 

She smiled back and for all he knew, the stars themselves lent her their light. 

_ (Though it would take years for him to admit this was the moment he fell in love.) _

“Thank you,” She said. She allowed him to help her to her feet and eyed the door. “Well. I don’t want to take any more of your time.”

He immediately panicked.  _ No. Wait. You can’t go yet, I just got you. _ “Are you sure? I just finished making dinner. For myself. But I, uh, made too much?”

His ears roared with subconscious embarrassment. He was blowing it.

She was looking up at him, impervious to his inner turmoil, her hazel eyes so  _ big _ and full of thoughts he found himself desperate to understand. “I don’t know. I’ve already caused a lot of trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” He ensured. 

“I don’t even know your name.”

He cursed himself internally. Shit. “Gods, I’m sorry. I’m Asra.”

“Amara.”

( _ Holy shit everything about her is perfect, perfect, perfect.) _

“Well, then. Amara,” he swallowed thickly. He felt  _ stupid _ , so stupid, surely she could see just how useless he was -- “Would you stay? I’ll even throw in a free card reading.”

Her eyes lit up at the idea and her smile turned wry, allowing him a glimpse into what her true personality could be. “Okay. Dinner and a tarot reading? Sounds like a better evening than what I had planned.”

His spirits soared and he spent the rest of the night talking to her about nothing, about  _ everything. _ She listened to him ramble about his herbs, his cards, his plans for his business, everything that was important to him. He didn’t normally word-vomit like this, but for once in his life, he really felt _listened_ to. It was only after it had grown dark and he’d sent her on her way with a parcel of leftovers did he feel guilty for not asking about herself.

He didn’t feel  _ that _ guilty, though. He knew in his heart of hearts that he would have plenty of time to learn everything she was willing to teach him about who she was. 

_ (He spent the rest of the night staring at the shadows on his ceiling, cataloging everything so he would never, ever forget her.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> Putting your work out for all to read is very nerve-wracking. Please feel free to leave any comments or constructive criticism for me! Also if you have anything you'd like to see, I'd love to know!


	4. Chapter 4

Amara used to love the water. Asra thinks she still has that quality, especially evident during bath days. He can hardly convince her to leave the water sometimes. It’s during one of these adventures --the kind where he more or less has to wrangle her out of the tub with a fluffy towel and a promise that he’d teach her more about tarot-- that he comes up with a brilliant idea: 

_ I should take her to the beach. _

He runs the risk of triggering a headache, he knows. But he can’t just give up  _ trying _ . He can’t give up hope. It’s all he has left.

“You’ll want to bring shorter trousers or a skirt you can lift,” he tells her that morning as they get ready. He tries to keep his tone light but it isn’t easy; this is her first trip out of the shop--he can’t help the anxiety biting at his nerves. 

“Why?” She asks. She pulls on a maroon skirt that dances at her ankles. Like everything, it’s absolutely enchanting on her.

“Because we’re going to the beach.” He doesn’t explain what the beach is -- he knows she’s read about it.

She turns to him with wide eyes and gasps,  _ “Really??” _

_ (What if somebody recognizes her? Tries to hurt her?) _

“Yep,” He smiles. “I figured you’d be itching to explore the world by now. What better place to go?” He fishes out a top made of cream-colored lace and offers it to her. 

She takes it and slips it on, the hem barely passing her ribcage. It looks lovely on her. Everything looks lovely on her. 

“Will there be...” She pauses, searching for the word, “Craps?”

A startled laugh spills from Asra, “Craps?”

“No.  _ Craps.” _

“Amara, what are craps?”

Exasperated, she holds her hands together and flutters her fingers in a wriggly motion,  _ “Craps,”  _ She says again, then huffs, “At the beach? I lost the word.”

He wishes he could kiss the frustrated look off her face. He takes her hands to stop them from moving and decides to take mercy on her, “They’re called  _ crabs _ , sweetness. You make the  _ ‘buh’  _ with your lips, but it’s a very low sound, while  _ ‘puh’ _ is higher in your mouth.  _ Buh. Puh. _ You see?”

“ _ Buh. Puh.  _ Cra- _ buh _ -s,” She says.

_ (What if  _ ** _I_ ** _ hurt her?) _

His smile softens and he allows her hands to drop. “Exactly.”

**...oOo…**

He was afraid that the market might intimidate her, but Amara continues to surprise him. As they wind through the cobblestone streets of Vesuvia, her eyes are wide and curious, her smile bright while she takes in the new sights and sounds. He admires her curiosity from his spot beside her, tethered to her whimsical spirit by her fingers laced with his. Finally, they reach the vendor’s square. There are more people here and he can feel her hand tense in his. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’re just passing through.”

But she isn’t worried. She’s  _ excited _ . Delight dances across her face--he hardly has a moment to breathe before she’s tugging him through the throng of people, her head whipping this way and that while she tries to take in as much as possible. She tugs him past a familiar stand, causing him to slow to a stop and regard it. It has brighter colors now and it smells  _ sweet _ instead of musty. He’s passed it before without a second thought, but never with Amara by his side.

( _ This used to be the butcher’s stand.) _

Amara crosses into his line of vision, her eyes darting from his face to the baker’s stand with confusion.

_ (This is where I met you, _ he tells her in his mind.  _ This is where you changed my life.) _

“Do you want bread?” He asks aloud. “I’ve heard they have a pumpkin bread that’s really good.”

“Pumpkin...bread?” She asks, her nose crinkling in distaste. 

“You haven’t even  _ tried _ pumpkin yet. You can’t say you already hate it.”

She rolls her eyes and he takes that as an agreement. He grins as he approaches the stand.

The baker finishes with another customer before fixing Asra with a warm smile, “Welcome! What’ll it be?”

“We’d like to try your pumpkin bread.”

“Lucky for you, I just pulled a fresh batch.” He turns around to a table where he has fresh loaves still steaming. He wraps them, then turns back to Asra. 

Asra takes the bread and reaches into his pocket to pull out some coins. Just as he’s about to offer it, the baker shakes his head. 

“She’s a pretty one,” He says, his eyes kind. Asra feels his collar heat up. “This one’s on the house. Spend the money on a gondola ride for your girl.”

“She’s my  _ apprentice _ ,” Asra says, hoping against hope that the baker can’t see the blush on his face.

The baker shrugs with a friendly smile, “Alright. None of my business. I still think a pretty little thing like that deserves a nice gondola ride.” He turns to a pile of dough, effectively telling them they could leave.

Asra mumbles another thank you before guiding Amara away, his heart  _ screaming _ in his chest. Once at a safe distance away from the bulk of people, he offers Amara her loaf. 

She surprises him. The little brat  _ giggles _ . Not just any giggle -- this one he knows as well as he knows the Arcana. This is her  _ teasing _ giggle. Her ‘ _ you have egg on your face and I enjoy watching you struggle’  _ giggle. Stars, he hasn’t heard it since before the plague hit Vesuvia.

_ (Before he left her.) _

“What?” He asks, perhaps a bit defensively.

She reaches up to ruffle his hair,  _ “ _ You are  _ embarrassed. _ ”

He scoffs and bats her away, “I am not.”

“You are.”

“And just how are you so sure?” He asks, ruffling her hair in revenge. 

She pulls away from his hand with a grin and for just a moment she looks so  _ young _ , so much like she did all those years ago. Her hair is wild (albeit longer, now), her smile is unapologetic, and her eyes are so  _ big _ he swears he could lose his soul if he isn’t careful. Her smile softens as she regards him, then shrugs.

“I dunno,” she admits, “I can just see it.”

_ (She still knows me, _ he thinks. He hopes.)

Asra hums, “Well. Don’t get a big head about it. Are you going to eat your bread or not?”

“Oh!” She unwraps her bread and takes a bite. She hums in surprise, “It’s....good?”

He laughs and takes his own bite -- it  _ is _ good, perfectly baked and spiced to enhance the flavor of the pumpkin. “I think I found my new favorite baker.”

Amara nods in agreement and together they continue through the streets. This is a path he knows by heart, forged in his memories by years and years of living underneath the docks. As they finally exit the line of buildings to take in the vast expanse of the Vesuvian sea, he can’t help the morbid nostalgia that overtakes him. Fog hides the horizon from them, which is just as well, because it also hides the Lazaret.

( _ Both of us have lost everything here.) _

“Woah,” Amara says next to him, breaking him from his thoughts. He looks down -- her bread is forgotten and she’s staring out at the horizon like it’s the most incredible thing she’s seen. She’s completely oblivious to all the pain and suffering that had once occurred here. 

_ Maybe this is what life needs to be,  _ a small voice in his head tells him.  _ Leave the past in the past. Forget what has wronged us. _

_ (No,  _ he retorts,  _ it’s too hard to forget.) _

“Come on, let’s get your feet in the water,” He tells her and leads her forward. She wobbles on the uneven sand but quickly finds her footing, a devilish grin splitting her face as she picks up speed, practically making him chase her down to the water. He laughs. He’s  _ breathless _ .

_ (She’s breathtaking.) _

A few feet away from the water he toes off his boots and then kneels to unlace Amara’s sandals. She holds onto his head for balance, an excited thrill radiating from the magic in her hands. It’s infectious. Once her sandals are off, she’s flying down the rest of the beach until she reaches the water. It laps around her ankles, causing her to laugh and throw the brightest smile back at him. 

He smiles back. He can’t help it. 

“Are you coming?” She calls to him. And like she were a siren, he finds himself drawing closer to her, enraptured by the way the wind tosses her hair around her face. She hikes her skirt up and ventures deeper into the water and he follows because that’s all he can do when it comes to her, it’s all he’s  _ doomed _ to do.

_ (I followed you to the end of the line. I’ll follow you wherever you go next.) _

When he gets closer to Amara, she drops her skirt so it flows around her like a lily pad. Her eyes are closed while the breeze washes over her face; her fingertips dance on the surface and she sways with each little wave that approaches the shore. The water here is waist deep -- Asra hadn’t planned to go this deep, but he wouldn’t miss this for the world. The look of serenity on her face is new to him.

She opens her eyes after a few moments and their gazes lock. For a moment -- just a  _ moment _ \-- he thinks that she’s about to say something important to him, or maybe he might word vomit the truth to her, he doesn’t know. But instead her face warps into a shit-eating grin and she throws her arms out to splash him, effectively shaking him from his reverie.

_ “Excuse me?!”  _ He sputters with a laugh, wiping water from his eyes. She shrieks and starts to wade away, but she isn’t fast enough. He locks his fists together and swings them in a sweeping arc, sending a large spray of water her direction. 

“Asra!” She cries with a peal of laughter. She splashes him in return, and then ensues full-blown water warfare. He chases her through the water, both of them laughing and everything is so  _ light, _ so very light and happy and  _ everything _ he had hoped for. Good think Faust stayed at the shop -- she  _ hates _ this much water.

She gets him with a particularly strong wave that soaks his hair to his skull and then all the stops are out. He’s sure his expression must be pure  _ evil _ as he calls for his magic and raises a globe of water above her head. She gapes at it -- he waits for her eyes to close before he drops it down on her with a crash.

He’s laughing as she approaches him, soaked to the bone. He can see her skin through her top and he has to swallow down the shame that threatens to take his good mood away.

_ (I’m not supposed to feel this way for you. Not anymore.) _

“Show me how!” She demands.

“What?” he smiles, “Think you’re ready for telekinesis already?”

“ _ Show. Me. How.” _

He takes her hands, cupping them upward. “Remember the light in your chest we talked about?” He waits for her to nod before continuing. “Imagine it. Imagine it’s flowing into the water with every exhale. Once you feel like you’ve got a pretty good grip, imagine a sphere, and lift it into the air.”

This was one of the first tricks the Magician had taught him. He knows she can do it as well.

Her eyes close and he can feel her magic swelling, amplified by his own. The water around them takes on a gentle, comfortable glow. 

And then it disappears.

Not the glow. Not the magic in her veins. The water  _ itself _ disappears, pushed away from them in a swell of energy until they are surrounded by walls of seawater roaring over their heads. They’re standing on seafloor about 2 meters in diameter--barely an arms breadth away, he can see silhouettes of various fish, each glowing from the affects of her magic. 

He’s blown away.

Amara’s eyes open. He can see she’s as surprised as he is, and just like that, her control snaps like a rubber band. Water rushes back around them, settling at their waists.

“I messed up,” She grumbles.

He’s still in awe. He can’t believe she managed to do that on the first  _ try _ . “Amara, no. That was  _ incredible.” _

“It wasn’t a ball.”

Asra can’t help but laugh. He has to focus on brushing wet hair from her face to keep himself from kissing her out of excitement.

_ (Can’t you see how special you are? Can’t you see how incredible that was?) _

“No, it wasn’t a ball.” He admits. “But it was brilliant all the same. We can work on the ball later.”

She agrees (albeit grumpily) and then wades off to continue exploring the water,  _ still _ oblivious to the fact she’s a miracle. He himself leans back until he’s suspended and the sky above him seems limitless. For the first time, he actually believes maybe it is.

**...oOo...**

They stay at the beach all day. The sun rises higher and higher and eventually begins to lower across the horizon. Around mid-day, the fog had burned off, but he had been too invested in showing Amara how to catch a fish with her hands. (A trick he’d learned from Muriel.) When she finally  _ did _ catch one, she felt too guilty to keep it, and so they let it go. He didn’t mind -- they still had plenty of bread. When the sky started to show streaks of purple, they laid themselves out on the sand to eat and watch the last bit of sunset. The Lazaret is visible now but oddly enough, Asra doesn’t feel his usual bitterness toward it. Sure--it’s painful, it’s sad, it reminds him of all the failures to his name, but...now it represents  _ her. _ Her spirit. Second chances.

“What is that?” She asks, pointing at the island as though she could hear his thoughts.

He exhales. Right. “The Lazaret. It’s where the city put their sick.”

She frowns. “It was a...clinic?”

“No. More of a...holding center, I suppose.”

“Oh.” Her face grows very somber. He notes that her freckles have darkened considerably. “That’s... _ sad.” _

His heart pangs. He knows. He reaches across the sand to touch their pinky fingers together. “It’s the past.”

“The one I can’t remember?”

“Yes.”

She hums and sits up, wrapping her arms around her knees as she contemplates the distant horizon. “I feel like it’s important.”

Asra struggles to tamp down his alarm, “What is? The island?”

“Yes. I feel like you’re reading me a book and something bad is in the next chapter.”

“Can you explain more?” He can feel a chill go through him that has nothing to do with the setting sun.

Her eyes are glazed over like she’s somewhere far away, somewhere he cannot reach. Asra reaches out to touch her shoulder. As soon as he makes contact with her skin, she convulses and clutches her head, curling up in a tight ball.

“Amara!” he says, no longer able to hold back his panic. He pulls her into his arms where she continues to hunch in on herself, groaning in pain. 

_ You knew this could happen,  _ a bitter, spiteful voice says in his mind.  _ Yet you took the risk anyways. _

_ (I want her to remember!) _

_ You want her to remember  _ ** _you_ ** _ . _

He’s helpless. She’s sobbing in his arms now, the veins at her temples bulging from her skin as her body rejects whatever memories her mind tried to recover. He clutches her tightly and rocks her, whispering soothing words,  _ begging _ the headache to pass and let her  _ remember _ .

He is selfish. He knows this.

Her pain grows and he can no longer bear the sight of it. He presses a hand to her crown and allows his magic into her head. He can feel her thoughts as acutely as his own, and her  _ feelings _ , oh stars, her headache splits his own head open. He grits his teeth and pushes through it until he finds the source -- it’s a tangle of black, inky webbing. He surrounds it with his magic, urging it to unravel, but it doesn’t respond to him. Finally he does the only thing he can think of: he rears into it and  _ tears  _ at it, until it’s in shreds and both their heads are relieved from the pressure. He knows that whatever memory it had been may be permanently lost to her now.

_ (But,  _ he thinks _ , it’s a small price to pay to keep her alive.) _

Amara is still crying softly in his lap. He urges her to sit up so he can examine her tear-streaked face, cupping her jaw like she may just shatter in his grip. He feels like his hands are too heavy, too rough, too  _ sharp. _

“I want to remember,” she breathes.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say.

They stay until the sun has gone down completely and leave only when the air nips at their skin. It’s a quiet walk home, and an even quieter bedtime ritual. He wants to coddle her, wants to hold her to his chest and never let her leave his arms.

_ (This is what got you in trouble in the first place.) _

They collapse in bed, both still sandy and briney and in desperate need of a bath they don’t have energy for. He can’t help but feel like he’s disappointed her, somehow. Or maybe he just disappointed himself. He put her life in danger on the off-chance he could trigger a memory.

Amara’s hand curls around his own. 

“I had fun today,” she murmurs. She isn’t facing him. He doesn’t expect her to. The words still make his heavy heart feel lighter.

"Me too."

She shifts, her hand leaving his as she curls on her side. "We should go back. I won't have another headache again. Promise."

The ceiling above him blurs slightly, "We'll see."

He can hear her exhale. Whether she is upset or relieved, he cannot tell. "Good night," She says.

“Good night,” He replies. 

He doesn’t think either of them sleep. She’s haunted by the ghost of memories she can’t reach, and he’s haunted by the weight of memories he wishes he didn't keep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hrm. I'm not in love with this chapter. I might go in with some rewrites but I owe you guys an update.  
As always -- thank you for commenting and leaving kudos!!! I appreciate each and every one of you.


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